Shed My Tears (Break Your Promise)
by MyThoughtsAreScreaming
Summary: He tells himself that no, he isn't depressed, he's just lonely. He isn't desperate, he's just tired. He's not sad, -instead, he just feels numb.
1. Chapter 1

Death; noun

The action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.

"an increase in deaths from skin cancer"

synonyms:

demise, dying, end, passing, passing away, passing on, loss of life, expiry, expiration, departure from life, final exit, eternal rest;

o the state of being dead.

"even in death, she was beautiful"

o the permanent ending of vital processes in a cell or tissue.

Death. The end of life. Never again to be living, moving, breathing.

Death. The end of memories. Never again to be loving, caring, laughing.

Death, The end of happy moments. Of good times. Of times when you laughed so hard you snorted milk out of your nostrils.

Death. The cease of your heart. Of your breathing. Of your consciousness.

Death. The taker of the living. The Grim Reaper. The end of conscious existence.

Death. The end of all thoughts. The end.

It happened a lot.

…..despite the fact that it's always the innocents who get shot and the criminals- these condemned people that deserve nothing- are allowed to roam free.

It happened when a drug deal went south. Someone would threaten to rat them out, ended up on the wrong side of thirty-some iron barrels.

Police would show up thirty minutes later, no living being in sight. Start writing reports, hardly bat an eye to the surrounding scene before the body was placed in something considered worse than a trash bag and loaded onto stretchers.

The ambulance's sirens would turn off and they'd drive away, the police shortly after.

It happened when a bank was held up and raided. The criminals took hostages aside and called loudly outside that they'd only let the innocents -that were there in the wrong place at the wrong time- go when they were given a safe escort out of there with tons of cash secured wherever they'd ordered it.

The PD would show up and try to negotiate.

If they were lucky, the masked men were just desperate amateurs that were about to be evicted from their worse-than-dump-standards apartment.

The men would hand the hostages over after about a decent two hours and the police had minimal paperwork and citizens to reassure.

If they were not so lucky, the masked men were professionals that had done this time and time again and wouldn't bat an eye at the blood that crusted their fingers and left droplets of red on their clothing.

And about five hours later, when the police finally got the head of the heist out of the building or he got away, they'd start rolling in to collect the traumatized patients with less-than-comforting words, cover the bodies –five to six, depending on how much bloodlust the men had been running on that day, and start scrubbing the blood off the walls and floors.

The bank would reopen less than a week later, with nothing different except for the squeaky-clean tiles that were incidentally shiny only in that part of the lobby.

It happened when a person refused to pay up and a gun was being held to their back –or head, in some cases. A gunshot and cry of dismay -sometimes, not a cry at all- later, the lousy excuse for the law enforcement would show up and start the same cycle all over again.

Write reports, take pictures, wrap the body, drive away.

It happened when the mafia cornered an honest circus owner and ordered him to pay up for "protection". So naturally, the owner refuses because that scumbag isn't worth it. Next thing you know, there's a SNAP! of bolts and tethers and suddenly your parents are falling to their deaths. And it hardly registers to your now overloaded-beyond-belief brain that the sickening CRUNCH! is the snapping of bones as their bodies bend at awkward angles.

And it keeps replaying in your head, that same sound over and over and OVER again.

The twisted CRUNCH! and the chilling POP!

And the blood that shouldn't ever be flowing in so much amounts that's puddling around their bodies like some sort of twisted blood-angel and pouring out of their mouths and ears and you just can't comprehend it and you're struggling to BREATHE and then it's gone but your brain still hurts and you can't find anything to grab onto and now you're falling, falling, falling, just like they did and you close your eyes because you want to join them in whatever afterlife they're in and then you wake up on the floor in a cold sweat.

And you find your arms shaking and your breath shallow and quick. And your forehead is covered in a thick, watery substance and you reach your hand up to wipe in off and –thank God it's only sweat but then it turns red and starts to stick to your fingers and you're screaming your throat out but there's no sound and trying to tear the suddenly sticky substance off of your hands and you suddenly feel very dirty because it's still there even when you rushed to the bathroom and were scrubbing your hands so hard that they were bruising from how hard you're scrubbing and you're trying to think happy thoughts because you know that blood's not this hard to wash off but it is and you're sobbing hysterically and start to try and scrub your eyes with soap to get rid of the scene that keeps replaying and replaying and you can't stop it and you're going to die like this and then you wake up the next morning with water all over your face and a bump on your head from where it hit the counter in your not-so-graceful descent to the cold floor.

And then you start wondering why your life is so messed up and covered in such a traumatizing past that just won't go away and you catch yourself before you start hyperventilating and heave a large, exhausted, sigh.

It's no biggie, you tell yourself. Just a nightmare.

But that gruesome scene is one of the most vivid your sleep-deprived brain has conjured up so far.

So, with a great deal of effort, you force yourself up off of the cold watery tiles of the bathroom and struggle your way into bed. Upon reaching said destination, you promptly collapse onto the soft, comforting mattress and wish with all your might for sleep to come even though you don't necessarily want it.

So, when you eyelids start to flutter closed, you allow yourself to smile a little.

It's just a nightmare, you tell yourself. Everything's alright.

How very wrong you were.


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody notices it at first.

The subtle change in his posture. The lack of wordy quips and the creepy echo of the infamous cackle.

The way his lip twitched downwards when anything family-related became a topic of discussion. Nor was the way he pretended to need to do something before he drew attention to himself, slip away and recede into the shadows like he was never even there.

It wasn't like his best friend would even notice. Chasing skirts and continuously trying to catch a date were all the sudden top priorities.

Robin had never been really close with anyone else on the team. Conner was probably the closest he had –minus Wally, but he wasn't really close now. They could relate over daddy issues and whatnot, but when it really came down to it, they didn't have much in common.

Kaldur was an amazing leader and great support system, but he just seemed a bit too mature to have much fun with. He could tell a few jokes and make astounding passive aggressive comments (in fact, Robin often fantasized about what the Atlantean's meeting with Alfred would be like), but all the same he disagreed with Robin's method of 'fun' and didn't partake in any of his more mischievous stunts.

Artemis could be fun to hang around with, but it was abundantly clear to Robin that she wasn't very keen to hang out with the Boy Wonder and despite contrary belief, he _did_ know when not to push the boundaries and respected her space.

And then there was M'Gann. She was kind and fun-loving, but she was still relatively new to Earth and didn't understand much of the culture. She liked to make physical contact with others, and was overall a great older-sister role model. But she seemed so innocent to the harsh outer world and Robin wanted to preserve that the best he could. Unfortunately, that meant Robin couldn't really tell her about his troubles in Gotham because, well, it's _Gotham_.

Robin knew he had Barbara Gordon as a best friend to his civilian identity, but most of his life was as Robin anyways and he couldn't talk to her about _that_, so he had to lock his mouth shut and throw the key into a fiery volcano.

Robin was sure that this thing with Kid Flash was just a phase and would pass over soon. Just like every other 'phase' the speedster had gone through.

At least, that's what Robin kept telling himself.

Weeks passed by with no ending to this hellish nightmare in sight. He knew he was withdrawing, so subtly that no one seemed to notice, not even Artemis the ever-observant archer.

'Best friend' was a term used loosely now, hardly even the equivalent to a distant friend. Robin was starting to think of the word as an insult, and it took every ounce of his control to not spit it out with all of the malice he could.

Barbara was technically his alter-ego's best friend, but he couldn't seem to associate 'best' with anything good, so he started calling her 'super friend' in his head.

Batman seemed to catch on to some of Robin's problems, and it was obvious that the emotionally constipated man was trying his best to help, but Robin tried to leave him out of his troubles because B (who was just _B_ because he was Bruce and Batman combined) had enough of those on his own.

Besides, these were just temporary and would resolve themselves. He was sure of that.

Or at least, so he thought.

On those lonely nights when Bruce was at a meeting and Alfred was out of the manor, it was so much harder to block out those ever-persistent thoughts that rattled around in his head.

**_He's going to send you back_**, they hiss. **_That's why he hasn't figured it out yet._**

_No! Bruce likes me_, he responds, frantic.

**_That's what he tells you. That's what he wants you to believe._**

And then he shuts them out and tries to busy himself with something else.

But those vile creatures that whisper into his ear at night, with harsh softness and falsely comforting lulls, just make you _believe_ even though all evidence points to the contrary.

They visit every now and then and even though it's just so _tempting _to believe them he plows on and refutes with effervescent ferocity when they come back to haunt him.

The Voices, dubbed because of their sly tongues and deceptive hisses, persist, even when he's shoving them out with all of his strength and will.

It's like a dance, twisted and warped but all the same graceful and poetic. A lash of all the anger and malice and _HATE_ and a refute of all hope, faith, and love.

But the dark, twisted, words are getting harder to resist and the defenses are weakening, eroded by the constant doubt that surrounds it like a cloud.

He has names for them now, associated with what emotions he's feeling when they swarm him again.

Anger, Loneliness, and Misunderstanding often arrive together and feed off of each other, poisonous lilts inserting themselves into his thoughts, purposed to feed off of his more negative emotions.

He didn't know when they _weren't _feeding nowadays. He could hardly remember happiness anymore.

A river of doubt that floods over him is a route for the Voices to come, whispering remarks into his ear and he can't find himself enough to ignore them. The dam breaks and he's suddenly drowning under the torrents of doubt and pain.

And with the floods come those sickly comforting lullabies, twisted and warped but angelic in its own way.

Silky smooth honey, floating in the air and to his ears. An angel's touch, gracing his brow and light as a feather. The sweet aroma of his mother, wafting through the atmosphere and permeating all around him. He feels her hand caressing his cheek, feathery touch filled with warm comfort and a hominess Bruce never possessed.

He's opening his eyes again –when did he _close_ them?- and staring into the loving gaze of his mother, flowing locks of hair framing her features as a smile adorned her face.

He leans into her hand because he's missed this for _so long_ _it feels like forever and he just want to __be_.

He just wished she wasn't dead and gone forever and ever and ever and ever and-

Dead.

_Dead._

_**Dead. **_

****And suddenly her kind features are warping into sharp, jagged lines and gray skin and pointed teeth and _omigod is that __blood?_ And he found himself staring into the face of a ravenous beast with glaring beady red eyes and pointy teeth dripping with saliva.

He screamed, jumping away just as its disgusting head reared and it charged him with its small eyes shining with hate.

He didn't dare to take his eyes off of the monster as he scrambled back, shoes scuffing the linoleum tile as he raced to gain purchase.

He kept at his panicky attempts at escape until he felt something press against his back. He barely registered the coldness of the blank, gray wall because the monster _was coming closer and closer and __closer_and now it was _on him _and he _couldn't __get__** away**_ and now it was _gone_, disappeared into nothingness.

His heart was still beating loudly as blood pulsed through his ears, crashing like tidal waves as he concentrated on his breathing.

_Inhale. 1…2…3… Exhale._

And he continued like that until his breathes were no longer short and gasping but slow and deep.

Wait.

He was at Mount Justice.

He heard the thundering of running footsteps and suddenly he was acting on instinct and clambering to get his sunglasses on before the Team found out his identity.

He had just barely managed to finish his task before the door burst open, slamming into the wall, spider-web cracks appearing behind it.

A second later a blur of yellow appeared next to him, and hands were suddenly grabbing at his forearm as a tan face dotted with freckles and worried green eyes were covering his vision.

Garbled words were being spat at him, slurred and sped up to the point where it sounded like gibberish. Robin was started to get overwhelmed.

**_Get whelmed, Grayson_**.

And for once, Robin relented to Determination and took a deep breath, turning to the rest of his teammates who have by now arrived.

"It's okay, guys."

The arched eyebrows he receives, or, in Superboy's case, growl, make him a little uncomfortable.

Because it _is_ fine. He shouldn't concern himself with a trivial thing such as this. He fell asleep in the study. Had a nightmare. That was all.

****Sagging a little, but not for long until he forces himself to sit straighter, he carefully explains even when the other teens are looking at him worriedly.

When it's obvious that everyone wants to know what the nightmare was about, (it's practically hanging in the atmosphere) he pretends not to notice and after assuring his friends one more time that he's _fine_, he stands and strides out of the room.

Feeling the skeptical and worried stares boring into his back, he makes his way to the zeta beam and lets the feeling of dissolving wash over him.


End file.
